Tensions boil over clubhouse Coronas

‘Almost gotcha, loser,” Ernesto said out loud, smiling as he listened to the conversation Bonner’s wire was picking up. “C’mon, say it, man. Say it.”

At the bar, one agent filled Lopez in and told him to keep quiet while the other listened for the go-ahead in his earpiece.

Even as Lopez realized that hell might break loose at any second, his reporter’s mind began composing the lead to his story for the next day’s Times, and he was dying to know why Judge Larry Greene had showed up and joined Bonner and the others at the table.

It had taken Greene only about 30 seconds to rile Palmieri. The more he said, the redder Palmieri’s face got. When Palmieri jumped to his feet, it was clear things were at the boiling point.

“About Carmen,” Lopez said to the agent, careful not to look her way. “She’s gonna get hurt. She’s already told him about the package she gave me before we even came in. She’s done. Get her out.”

“Zip it, Lopez,” said the agent. “I walk over there again and conversation grinds to a halt.”

The reporter, flanked by the two feds, faced the glass overlooking the playing field without seeing anything beyond it.

At the table, Palmieri was talking. “Don’t make me laugh, Greene,” he said. “Look, Bonner, you and I both know His Honor here is in financial badlands -- he needs funds or he wouldn’t be on the take. And now he offers you 100K for the flash drive? He hasn’t got that kind of cash.”

“And Mr. Palmieri, here, does,” said Carmen as she slipped her hand through Vincent’s, tugging him back down into his chair. Once he was seated next to her again, she tucked her hand through his arm and cozied up, desperate to save her own neck. Steve wasn’t coming back from the bar. Tony was out there in Beverly Hills. She wanted to live to see another sunrise.

Palmieri seemed both distracted and flattered by her attention, even as he untangled himself from her.

“Vince,” said Bonner, laying both hands flat on the table. “You and me, we had a deal going. I got waylaid this morning -- call it a detour -- but we’re cool now, right? Lemme get you another Corona. Just pretend we’re in Cabo!”

He let out a sharp ironic laugh, louder than he intended.

“Greene, I suggest you get the hell out of here. Now,” Palmieri said, leaning toward him. “Oh, and you might wanna have a chat with the wife before too long. Know what I mean?”

Judge Greene’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened as he leaned back in the chair.

“You’re full of crap, Palmieri,” he said evenly. “You talk a good game, ruin people’s lives, but you’re just somebody’s penny-ante gopher, aren’t you?”

Vincent glared at him. He took a pull on his fresh beer. Bonner held his breath.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s not just Vincent Palmieri you’re messin’ with. My people? They pay me very well. There’s more cash comin’ in and out of my operation in Baja than you can imagine. Your pathetic little romp captured in full color insures my personal freedom. So I should thank you, Judge. Thank you very much.”

He raised his beer in salute, his rage barely contained.

“You’re still full of crap,” Greene said. “Don’t tell me you buy this scumbag’s garbage, Bonner.”

Palmieri sprang out of his chair, grabbed a fistful of the judge’s shirt and spoke directly into his face.

“Ever heard of the Marenco cartel, Judge? That’s my business, my source, my people --”

“Gogogogogogo!” shouted Ernesto.

Karen Dale, a five-time runner-up, says she has “learned that persistence pays off.”